Through the ole blue door


Draw the curtains and
open the windows.

The sun is singing
through the morning fog

with its visible voice
and the wind is calling your name.

Step up on the sill,
and leap

as the wind carries you
on its wings

to places you don’t find
but are found out by.

When you were deposited safely
in front of this small door you

thought this must be a dream,
so I am going through the blue door.

What wonders await?
What horrors?

I cannot know.
I simply take the pill

and shrink
because Wonderland is a metaphor for

London and though my heart is asleep in its
stars over the Queensboro Bridge,

I am here looking for new,
searching through and through

for someone other than you.
They are all beautiful with their

top hats and their mottos and their quips and
smarty pants. What can I say

it is like being a slightly different person everyday,
small variations on the original virtruvian design

but nonetheless faithful to its jumpstart origins.
I want what is hidden, what is kept, safe, it is thought

safe, but it is not, it is simply rotting.
Unbutton your shirt.

Your skin feels warm
to the touch.

Mountain Beauty Invocation Beard Comma

A bit of mindfulness,
a bit of effort
and a lot of guts,
you can make it
over any metaphorical
mountain. Even the really daunting ones,
that always turn out to be molehills.

Get your beauty sleep.
Because it’s not just good
for your skin but for your mind,
and that’s the beast you
wanna keep tamed.

If even the Gods
are calmed by music
then perhaps we should be singing
our ‘prayers’ rather than bitching them.
Does invocation work?
But Gods aren’t wishing wells.
More like your gym coach but less of a bitch.

The beard is back…
now all I need is approximately
five thousand kilograms of muscle
and I can be a sex god
rolling my eyes at
thinner queens in Soho and Vauxhall.

There is a moment before you fall asleep
when the whole day reaches
its punctuation mark,
before being sifted off into the salt or sugar
onto the next
day you … or ? or ! or . and sometimes ,

The century of birds

2014-07-17 16.57.11

There were those one hundred years when all the human beings had disappeared. Most of them self-destructed, but some of them, the richest of them, boarded makeshift spaceships and took off for other galaxies, while a select few simply zapped themselves into another dimension. With no one to make concrete, the buildings eroded and the roads collapsed, and everything was inundated by trees. Waterfalls replaced skyscrapers. The sky became bluer and bluer, and the seasons steadied. And what of the poetry of the earth? It was sung by the birds and the bees, and it was written on the bark of the trees, and the rivers which flowed carried the poetry of the soil to the ocean, where the poems became fins and the fins coalesced to form fish, and the fish got bored of the sea and crawled onto the earth, and man stood erect, looking around him, feeling his stomach rumble.